He felt—no, he felt nothing; nothing, not the beat of a sinking heart, the wheeze of a lung, or the creak of a failing part.
He was buoyant.
Darkness was complete, radiant with the essence of the deep.
He spun, turned, and was unsettled by this.
He came to rest, yet the dark deep continued to spin around him, and he was unsettled by this.
The dark deep came to rest.
The force below drew him, recalled the weight of the world, and he was settled by this.
He knew—no he was—repose, buoyant upon the deep.
The dark held him.
The deep repelled him, but would not let him go.
The two elements of existence defined him.
What was he?
The urge to muse, to brood, to wonder, to contemplate, these sloughed away, finding no purchase in...
Who was he?
He strained to think, and with nothing to strain against, came to rest, was at rest, was rest.
He who was, who is, who might yet be?
His thoughts fled.
Where might he be?
Was he dead?
A horizon appeared, a dark slate of gray separating an inky deep and a glossy black void.
Lightening danced upon the dark-shrouded deep.
He thought, but no thought came.
The thoughts left, dancing like lightning upon the dark shrouded deep.
The dark and the deep began to separate along the lightning-lit horizon.
He saw—no, he was—thought dance upon the deep.
The dark began to differentiate from the deep; void black becoming indigo, ink becoming gray.
The deep swelled like radiant night.
The gray elongated into a muted slate, dawning as a lightless day.
He sought within for the answer to questions unasked, and found nothing.
Thought came when bidden, but danced across the inky deep and the gray horizon, like Dawn dancing to wake the Sun from his slumber.
What was the Sun?
What was a sun?
The lightning danced out across the horizon, gathering, fusing; shimmering to spherical life.
He now beheld—no, had brought into being—the Sun, or rather, considering the scale, a sun.
The swell of the inky deep buoyed his troubled being.
The sun smoldered dimly, kept alive by the dancing lights of thought that emerged from him to dance across the slate gray day.
Who are you?
The thought echoed in an all encompassing base tone across the still perilous day breaking above the horizon, slowly—even deliberately—sinking like a wave of concern into his being.
He voiced a reply, and found that he had no voice.
He erupted in a panic as he scrambled madly to find and deploy some artifice with which to answer.
He had nothing with which to find, nothing indeed to scramble with, no means of deployment; was powerless to communicate.
As these thoughts emerged from his core thought they sizzled like lightning across the sky, dancing white before the red sun, which now rose above a formless lump of black basalt, the color of the inky deep. As these dancing tongues of informed light flickered before the lurid sun they attacked the formless lump of black stone like so many wicked vipers that could not leave well enough alone, that could not, in accordance with their meddlesome nature, leave Alone, alone.
I? I! I…
Heavy rain clouds now scudded across the gray day, obscuring the smoldering eye of the sun. As the lightening carved the mountain into a seated likeness of stone the rain scoured its surface to burnish it with a sheen that pleased, with a likeness that spoke in all of its silent rumination—I!
The outpouring depleted him.
Off he drifted, buoyant upon the deep, having illuminated the dark, and even reformed a portion of it in his own image.
